


Thin Air

by Run



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Drugs, Friendship, Gen, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 23:33:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11279076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Run/pseuds/Run
Summary: Lup teaches Lucretia a valuable skill, Lucretia implements it as needed.





	Thin Air

Lucretia was an artist, though she rarely characterized herself as such.

It wasn’t an inaccurate title in the strictest sense, but it was hardly a useful one. It didn’t define her the way ‘voyager’ or ‘adventurer’ might, it didn’t describe her work the way ‘chronicler’ could. Lucretia learned to draw to better detail her notes, to bring further clarity to the words she had already found and used, not to revel in the depths of her own tortured soul. Her sketches were an accent piece to the greater whole of her projects. Calling herself an ‘artist’ was an excessive flourish at best.

But she liked the way Lup said it.

Leaning over her shoulder as she sketched, snatching the books out from under her pencils, grinning at the unfinished pages like they held something worthwhile. Lup had a way of making her proud of even the simplest of doodles.

“If I could think of a better word, I’d use it,” Lup would say. “But c’mon Lucy, you do good work.”

This most recent cycle had seen an influx in Lucretia’s artwork. Partially because this beach retreat had provided a much needed respite, a time for reflection and creativity to bloom. But truthfully her sketchbooks were filled to bursting with Lup’s spur of the moment commissions.

“Okay!” Lup said, gesturing grandly to the ceiling. “I want you to imagine a dragon-“

They were sitting in Lup’s private quarters on the Starblaster, Lucretia sunk into an atomic orange beanbag chair, Lup poised straight backed on her bed. They could have spent the night in the shared dwelling the team had built on the beach but they had been sleeping there for the past three months, and when Lup calls for a sleepover the occasion must be marked with a modicum of grandeur. Thus, private party in the Starblaster.

Lup raised her pipe to her lips and exhaled a stream of smoke, filling the already clouded air with vapor. It seemed to Lucretia that Lup’s intended goal was to fill the ship with a haze thick enough to cut a hole through. She had been working at it for hours now and showed no sign of slowing down, nor did her makeshift pipe.  Cobbled from a few spare parts and held together by an unnamed force of arcana, Lup dubbed it ‘the necessary evil’ and had been practicing tricks with the smoke since she got it working.

  
Lup blew a fine, round ring followed by a perfect sphere. With hands as deft as the wind, she pushed the ring over Lucretia’s head and dunked the temporary ball, laughing as it crashed and dissipated over her.  

Lucretia waved a hand in front of her face, smiling. “I don’t need to imagine a dragon, Lup. I’m looking at one.” She closed her mouth just in time for a fresh stream to hit her square in the face. When it cleared she saw nothing but saw Lup’s satisfied grin. “How are you doing that?” Lucretia asked eyes wide. “Your lungs can’t possibly hold that much vapor.” 

The pipe danced in Lup’s long fingers, swaying but never falling. Lucretia found herself thinking that it didn’t dare shatter in Lup’s presence, despite that statement’s inherent lack of logic and reason. “How do I do it?” Lup repeated, pulling in another long drag.

Lup’s door creaked opening, leaving just enough space for Magnus to poke his head into the room, coughing at the veritable wall of smoke. “Lup!” He croaked. “You’re flooding the hallway, take it outside!”

Curving her mouth into a tight circle, Lup used the smoke in her lungs to spell out a phrase in the air, the letters forming in soft, pillow-like blocks. The words ‘Private Party’ floated lazily towards Magnus before dissipating. He was, predictably, unperturbed. “We’ve got an entire beach to ourselves Lup, I know we aren’t all sleeping here tonight but we can see the smoke coming out of the-“

No sooner had the words left his lips was he nearly knocked off his feet by the gust of wind escaping Lup’s mighty lungs. Lucretia had seen the intake with her own bewildered eyes but the smoke kept coming. A truly astounding amount of time passed and Lup was still exhaling smoke in Magnus’ face. By the time she had run out of air, he had left the room entirely.

“How do I do it?” Lup said again, turning back to Lucretia’s stunned stare. “Magic helps, of course. But the secret, as it nearly often is my love, is confidence.” 

-

Decades, centuries, lifetimes later, Madame Director sat at her desk.

A dull ache was forming behind her eyes, spreading through her brain and pulsing at her temples. It had been a long day but that was the nature of the beast she had created. The days weren’t simple anymore, and they all seemed longer than the allotted hours within them.

But today had been a trainwreck, a lost cause of bitter defeats and broken pieces and all she wanted from this world was a damn moment’s peace.

Resigned and sighing, she reached into the compartment in her desk’s smallest drawer. Inside was nothing but a long, archaic cigarette holder and a stash of thin smokes. It was a rarely indulged vice, saved for those singular moments when she favored distractions over solutions.

She had just barely conjured the flame to light the smoke when her office door flew open. Lucas, disheveled and peeved, stormed in without a word. He slammed his hands flat on her desk, knocking over a small plant and scattering papers to the floor.

“Lucretia,” he said, voice high with agitation. “We need to talk.”

Without taking her eyes off the man in front of her, The Director raised the cigarette holder and placed the tip between her lips.

 “You know that I’m in an intolerable situation,” Lucas continued, assumedly unaware of the agitation his presence caused. “That man, your lackey downstairs, is impeding my progress and I can’t be expected to keep working under these- “

The Director held up finger. Lucas, still fuming, fell silent on the instant. A small flame sparked from Lucretia’s raised index finger, which she used to light her cigarette. She inhaled the hot smoke slowly, her eyes falling closed, her lungs filling to capacity. It was the first easy breath she had taken all day.

“Lucretia-“ Lucas started again but his efforts were only met with a thick cloud in response. He hacked briefly, waving the smoke away. “Lucretia is this really-“  

It kept coming. Despite Lucas’ protests, the smoke continued its’ undaunted march, long after Lucretia’s lungs should have given up and shriveled away. She felt them constrict, aching for clean air but she pressed on. It was a ludicrous amount of effort presented as a blasé exhale. It must have been infuriating from the outside as, within the next few moments, Lucas gave up on his labors and left the room in a huff.  

The cloud settled in the empty room, falling near the crack of the violently closed door.  An inelegant method of extraction perhaps, but she couldn’t argue with the efficiency. Finally alone again, The Director turned in her chair, stopping to find herself derided by her own portrait’s gaze. It wasn’t painted to be condescending, but that didn’t stop the occasional, disquieting churn in her stomach.

Lucretia took another drag of her cigarette, holding it in her lungs before exhaling upwards; momentarily obscuring her own painted reflection. For brief second it looked like it was the painting that was smoking and Lucretia found herself smiling at that statement’s lack of logic and reason.

Just as she felt the corners of her lips turn up, her throat tightened and her lungs burned abnormally. Turning around again, she conjured a small ashtray, stamped out her cigarette, and returned the bowl to the ether.

Despite the minor effects of the drug, her hands still twitched anxiously. It was only when she heard the quiet tapping that Lucretia realized she had picked up a pen. Cautiously, like a child reaching for the treat they had been told to save for later, she turned over a discarded document.

It was a rough sketch. A simple still life of the chair opposite her desk, but as the picture took shape, Lucretia’s shoulders relaxed, her lungs breathed freely. For the first time in hours, her hand was steady.


End file.
